


A Hanzo Thing

by electroncloudy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Prompt Fill, fluff kind of, tsundere hanzo lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7383355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electroncloudy/pseuds/electroncloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hanzo and Mccree go to a bar. Mccree gets too drunk and Hanzo has to take them home." A quick prompt fill I did for Softcore Sin from the McHanzo discord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hanzo Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Just transferring it over from Tumblr. It's?? unbeta'd. unedited. un..everything.

Maybe it was just a McCree thing. Maybe it was just a friendly McCree thing to do where McCree corners Hanzo after their shared time at the practice range. The archer stepped to the side, eyes avoidant. And McCree – gruffy, loud, American – damn him, took up far too much space.

“Shimada, let’s go.”

Hanzo stared past McCree. It already unnerved him enough that the cowboy insisted on eyeing his form in a way that was almost scandalous every time they happened to run into each other at the range at the same time (which was far too often for Hanzo’s liking). “The hour grows late and I desire rest. Leave me be.” He elbowed past McCree.

“You ain’t mad cause I beat ya today, are ya?” McCree’s deep, velvet voice echoed off of the hallway’s walls.

How could a man who did nothing but smoke cigars (Cigarillos, McCree often reminded him) and spoke only nonsense have such a dulcet voice, Hanzo caught himself wondering. The act alone irritated him to no small end.

“Come on, Shimada. I bet I could drink ya under the table, too.”

Hanzo spun and fisted the woolen serape into his hand. “You are a fool if you believe you can challenge me without consequence.” He hissed. A shit-eating grin spread across McCree’s face. He blew out a small cloud of smoke down at Hanzo, almost directly into the shorter man’s eyes. Hanzo blinked and found himself growing increasingly more and more agitated by McCree’s nonchalant behavior. “Loser pays.” Hanzo growled finally, releasing McCree with a shove.

 

 

It had to be a McCree thing. It had to be a McCree thing that his idiotic jokes were actually making the corner of Hanzo’s mouth twitch into a smile. It had to be a McCree thing where when his head lolled on his hand and stared at Hanzo with a bleary gaze that Hanzo felt his face reddening.

“You done?” McCree asked, “Ya know what they say about your people. No,” McCree drew out the single word, “tolerance.”

Hanzo gestured at the glasses before them. “I certainly do not have any tolerance for the rambling of a dirty farmhand. Drink.”

McCree nodded, picking up the shot glass before him and holding it in the air. “Here’s ‘ta friendship.” He called out in a sing-song voice, downing the drink. McCree laughed. “You’re as red as a tomato, Shimada. Look ‘it yourself. Time for a break?”

The glass in Hanzo’s hand felt cool to his hand. Comforting. He wanted to hold it against his cheeks which were on fire. But, Hanzo continued to repeat to himself. It was a McCree thing. He lifted the small glass to his lips and tilted his head back, feeling the liquid burning its way down his throat. With a pointed bang, Hanzo slammed the glass in front of him and wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. “Another,” he called out.

McCree groaned. “You’re killin’ me here, Cupcake.”

“Ha,” Hanzo barked out, “You should have considered this before you challenged me.”

“Oh, trust me, Sugar. I considered all sorts of things,” McCree muttered miserably before pushing the new glass set in front of him away. “A’ight, a’ight. Ya win this time. Let’s go home.” He dug into his pocket, fishing out a card and flung it on the counter at the approximate direction of the bartender, missing by a mile and motioned at the two of them and then at the card. Hanzo smugly noted the apparent state of McCree’s inebriety.

When the bartender returned with McCree’s card, he looked quite concerned by the state of his customer. McCree, meanwhile, didn’t have a single care in the world as he rested his head in his arms on the counter, staring at Hanzo’s face with round puppy-dog eyes.

Hanzo turned away feigning disgust. Not feigning, real disgust. McCree was an animal.

“Darlin’, if you think so. I can show you a real wild rodeo,” again with the disgusting self-satisfied smirk. Hanzo wanted to pull his arm back and punch McCree right in the face for smiling at him like that, but he also wanted to bang his own head against the counter for being drunk enough to say things he didn’t mean to say at all.

The door was not so far away, nor the compound that they lived in together with the other agents. It was dark out. Hanzo could probably lose sight of McCree sooner than McCree could even notice in this state. But, if he just left McCree here in this miserable state, Genji will chide him. Probably, Hanzo convinced himself. That would be just a Genji thing. It was not a Hanzo thing. There was no Hanzo thing towards McCree besides irritation. His face was red because of imbibing alcohol all night with McCree. His head felt light for the same reason. McCree’s sudden grasp at his sleeve for balance only set his heart racing because Hanzo is a warrior easily set off by threats such as the way McCree stared at him, the way McCree smiled at him, and the way McCree slurred his flirtatious words at Hanzo in that annoyingly pleasant, deep, smooth voice of his.

Despite his sense of better judgement, Hanzo half dragged and half slung the completely sloshed cowboy to his side. McCree was quite a bit taller than him, and hell will freeze over before Hanzo would be willing to carry him. He’s just helping out a fellow operative. That is all. There is nothing more. Nothing less. And it was not any sort of desire to be closer to McCree that brought Hanzo to throwing McCree’s arm around his shoulder, nor was there any motivation of that sort when he brought an arm around McCree’s waist to stabilize the taller man’s body against his own.

They walked together, McCree stumbling, falling, head leaning against Hanzo’s shoulder, wailing out all sorts of strange twangy southern drinking tunes, breath hot against Hanzo’s neck – alcoholic, smoky, more intoxicating than hours of shots, and Hanzo found himself liking McCree’s scent and unable to clear his mind of anything but the smell of McCree. So, when they arrived at McCree’s door, when Hanzo scrambled around in McCree’s pocket for his access card, when McCree seemed to have accidentally pressed his lips against Hanzo’s cheeks, Hanzo pretended it was an accident but he wished, oh, he hoped it was not. And that was a Hanzo thing.

They are going to need to have a serious conversation over some homebrewed hangover remedies tomorrow.

The sudden brightness of the motion-sensing light turning on temporarily blinded Hanzo and McCree groaned. As if on autopilot, he clambered to his bed, falling face down in it.

“Moron,” Hanzo spat out, “Undress.”

“Not right now, Sweet Cheeks,” McCree moaned, throwing his hat onto a hook, “They sure were sweet.”

“You will regret this in the morning. Undress.”

McCree pulled his blanket over him and rolled over. With an impatient snarl, Hanzo ripped the blanket from McCree and threw it at the floor. He pulled McCree by an arm to his feet and McCree leaned his whole weight against Hanzo’s shoulder. “You helpin’ me, Hanzo?”

Refusing to dignify McCree with a reply, Hanzo pulled the serape over McCree’s head and let it fall to the ground. His nimble fingers scrambled at McCree’s chest plate, peeling it off of him and McCree himself fumbled with the white undershirt. He had it half way over his head when he slumped, giving up.

Hanzo resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he helped McCree pull off his shirt. “Your belt. Weapons. Shoes. What do you wear to sleep? I shall fetch it for you.”

“Too hot… to wear anythin’ to sleep,” McCree mumbled, yawning and scratching at his stomach. “Water, Pumpkin…”

“I am not your,” Hanzo cut himself off. It was pointless to argue with such a drunken man. He took an empty glass to the restroom and filled it up with tap water. Back in the room, McCree had already stripped himself down to his boxers. Hanzo noted humorlessly that even those were cowboy themed – white with little brown cowboy hats. Very funny. Seeing McCree sprawled out on his bed, Hanzo was suddenly reminded of the way McCree had appraised him with his eyes in the training range. It was only fair then for him to do the same to McCree.

McCree’s face wasn’t unpleasant to look at, Hanzo confessed to himself. His hair looked to be a scruffy mess, but it wasn’t unattractive. His craggy features looked almost soft when relaxed in sleep. And his body was muscular and toned, tanned and attractive.

Damn.

Hanzo shook his head to clear his mind. He reached for the blanket on the ground and flung it onto McCree haphazardly and turned to leave, but before his hand could settle on the door knob, Hanzo sighed and returned to McCree’s beside, smoothing out the blanket over McCree. Hanzo considered grabbing the cup of water sitting on McCree’s bed stand and throwing it in his own face, but before he could, McCree rolled. “See ya, Hanzo. Thanks… Darlin’.”

Though McCree was the one who ended up taking the hit to his bank account, Hanzo felt as if he had been thoroughly defeated by this strange man laying before him. With a weary and tired sigh, Hanzo replied, “I will see you. Tomorrow.”


End file.
